


Silent Night

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown - G. K. Chesterton
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, I did my best okay, M/M, also my first attempt at emulating G.K. Chesterton's writing style, they are in love, this is my first attempt at writing bookverse Father Brown, this is ridiculously soft and fluffy even by my standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Hercule Flambeau is not used to the cold damp winters of England, nor will he ever be used to them, but sometimes, it's worth it. Some people are worth freezing for.Written for the Crime and Christmas 2020 prompt 1: Snow
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Silent Night

Snow swirled thick in the air outside St Francis Xavier’s church, falling fresh upon the thick and greying layer, trodden in by a long busy London day. Last minute Christmas shoppers had hurried past earlier in the day, roughly around late morning, laden down with heavy parcels. At some point in the afternoon, a small group of young children had built a rather magnificent snowman in the quaint little churchyard that stood tucked away here, safe in the knowledge that the quaint little priest who dwelled therein would not chase them away, and would prevent anyone else from knocking the snowman down. Stout businessmen, blind to the world around them, seeing only the world of stocks and figures within their own heads had strolled by, and later in the day small old ladies within even smaller dogs had taken a last after-dinner walk, just after the setting of the sun and the lighting of the lamps, which had somehow taken them by surprise, just as it had done every winter for decades, and just as it would continue to do so for as long as they lived on this isle. “Don’t the nights draw on fast? Doesn’t it seem unnatural?” said the gossiping voices within small tea rooms all over the capital, although the routineness of it all made it seem the most natural thing in the world, to an outsider.

But now, the street was dark, and still, and quiet; the rapidly falling fresh snow was only disturbed by one lone figure. If anyone else had been there to see (although they weren’t), they would have seen an impossibly large, hulking figure step into the lamp light, the soft crunch of his footfall almost impossibly light, given his impressive frame. The figure in question was that of Monsieur Hercule Flambeau, former master criminal, and current private detective.

Being from the south of France, Flambeau was still not yet used to the cold or the damp, and doubted he ever would be. This was looking to be his coldest winter yet, and at times he regretted ever choosing to settle down and make his home here. Only at times, however. Truth be told, the unrelenting bustle of the city provided a comforting anonymity, of sorts. A true fresh start. It wasn’t so much that nobody knew who he was, or what he’d done in the past; on the contrary, that was a large part of his appeal as a detective. It was more that here, nobody really seemed to much care. People came to London to make a fresh start all the time, it was just what people _did_ – so what difference did it make if someone was a former farmhand come to seek his fortune, or a beautiful young woman fleeing an oppressive and cruel husband, or the former greatest criminal in Europe, who was still a wanted man in five countries? Not to mention it was rather pleasant to enjoy some level of fame, while also being able to blend into crowds, quietly drink a few pints, and ride the London omnibus all without turning a single head.

Flambeau leaned casually against the iron railings outside the small church, fumbling with frozen fingers to strike a match and light his cigarette. It was true, of course, that the real reason he came to London, much more so the real reason he stayed (despite the weather), was not fame, or occupation, or even anonymity. He took a drag on his cigarette and looked up at the church, as the voice of a choir began to softly float out of it and towards him, on the chill breeze.

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright_

_'Round yon virgin Mother and Child_

_Holy infant so tender and mild_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

He smiled softly to himself. He recognised the melody at once, although he was more familiar with the song in French. The memory raised a strange sort of wistfulness in his chest. Not really homesickness; he had nothing and no-one of any great value to wish to return _to._ The only person he could ever imagine wanting to spend Christmas with was right here, close by, a blaze of warmth and colour in this cold grey city. Perhaps, he thought, the almost longing he felt was more of a longing to have a time to long to return to. Everybody around him seemed to get frightfully sentimental about the past at this time of year, but it seemed to Flambeau that the past was usually greatly overrated, and had nothing to offer that the present and the future couldn’t do better.

He shivered as the wind picked up, snowflakes blowing directly into his face and settling in his moustache. He scowled up at the sky for breaking him out of his reverie with such a cruel trick. As he stared heavenward, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of white flakes, swirling in the dim lamp light, illuminated against the pitch black sky. It seemed somehow unreal, ethereal, magical, even. As though he was glimpsing at something not meant for mortal eyes. _Fairies again,_ he thought with a wry smile.

_Silent night, holy night_

_Shepherds quake at the sight_

_Glories stream from heaven afar_

_Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia_

_Christ the Saviour is born_

_Christ the Saviour is born_

The choir themselves sounded somehow otherworldly, as quiet disembodied voices in this cold, still night. Flambeau glanced at the church once more. There was a soft candlelit glow from the stained glass windows, and it looked warm, and inviting. The shivering Flambeau knew he could have entered inside, if he wanted to. He would have been more than welcome.

He didn’t.

He turned his gaze away, looking instead at the dim churchyard. It would have looked eerie, threatening even, in the cold grey half-light, were it not for the cheery snowman, smiling irreverently from between two gravestones. Flambeau found himself smiling back at the thing. His smile widened, meeting with a fond shake of the head, as he recognised the tatty umbrella in the snowman’s cold grip, and the shovel hat upon its head, fast disappearing under another layer of snow.

_Silent night, holy night_

_Son of God love’s pure light_

_Radiant beams from Thy holy face_

_With dawn of redeeming grace_

_Jesus Lord, at Thy birth_

_Jesus Lord, at Thy birth_

Flambeau turned around to face the street, eerie in its own stillness and emptiness, a world away from how it looked in the daylight, and took another slow drag on his cigarette.

“Flambeau?” came a quiet voice from behind him.

Flambeau spun around to see a small round-faced priest, in all his clerical finery, having slipped out of the church unseen while the choir sung, and snuck up behind Flambeau unheard.

“Father Brown!” Flambeau cried in surprise and delight. “You startled me! You know Father, you really could have made the most excellent thief.”

The little priest blinked at him owlishly from behind his round spectacles, but did give him a small smile. “Why didn’t you come inside?” he said softly, his breath hanging as fog in the air. “It’s awfully cold out here.”

“I- I didn’t like to,” the former thief said, feeling foolish. “It didn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Don’t be silly, Flambeau!” Father Brown cried in a half-whisper. “Everyone is welcome in the house of God.” He blinked, and huffed a small laugh. “I have written some absolutely splendid sermons on the subject, that you never hear.”

“I was listening to the choir, from out here?” Flambeau spoke, by way of defence. “It was rather nice.”

“I suppose that’s something.”

Impulsively, like a child, the little priest climbed on to the bottom rung of the iron railings that separated the two men, bringing them closer together, and the faces of the comical pair, one unusually tall and the other unusually short, more on a level. He wobbled as though he might topple backwards into the snow, and Flambeau placed his large hands on the Father’s shoulders to hold him steady. The stayed like this in silence for a few moments, smiling at each other in the dark, as the voices of the choir drifted around them.

_Silent night, holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright_

_Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child_

_Holy infant so tender and mild_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

_Sleep in heavenly peace_

And so it was that for just a moment, all really was calm and bright on this cold grey street, as with no-one else but God around to see, the great thief kissed his little thief in the dim lamp light. The snow continued to fall, and the choir continued to sing, and the two men were, for that moment, truly happy, and truly at peace.


End file.
